


Rušur

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Fingering, Ass Play, Father/Son Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 12:03:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7976137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maglor and Fëanor exchange opinions, then Maglor demands something from his father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rušur

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the Anal Play square in my second Season of Kink card.

Macalaurë bypassed the main entrance and briskly crossed the stone courtyard, stealing a respectful glance at the statues lined along the walls of the buildings surrounding it – a display for some of his mother's best works. He passed under the arched gateway which led into the back garden and turned left towards the secondary entrance. He took off his mantle in the entrance hall and made to throw it on a bench, when a servant soundlessly came forward. The man, only a couple years older than him, took the garment to dust it and properly hang it. 

Out of their many retreats scattered all over Valinor, the town house in Tirion was the only one in which they had servants. The servants' main duty was to take care of the large building while they were away, and were otherwise only employed during the morning and early afternoon. Macalaurë wasn't used to their presence, and didn't particularly care about being waited upon. His parents had taught him how to look after himself from a very first age, and taken him on his first trip to the wilderness when he was only twenty-three. 

A smile softened his face at the memory, and he nodded to the servant more amicably than he would otherwise have. He slipped through the narrow door on the right-hand side – Fëanáro maintained that the architect who had designed such tiny doors wasn't worthy of his title – bounding up the shallow winding stairs that led to the upper rooms. He emerged into the first floor waiting room and paused for a moment. A huge tapestry covered the whole right wall, hiding the door that led into his father's suite, and he debated whether to slip in there or not. 

Nobody could approach those rooms uninvited – a servant had been dismissed once because Fëanáro had caught him knocking on the door; Fëanáro had no patience for people who couldn't be trusted to follow clear instructions – save Maitimo, who had earned a special right to intrude at any time, and Macalaurë himself, who liked risks and found provoking his father stimulating.

He decided against it. He didn't want to disturb his father in case he was sleeping, since Laurelin was barely past its peak. He passed into the smaller antechamber, and continued into the long dining room that had been turned into a library. The house was one of the first built in Tirion, when the ideas of privacy about which newer houses were more punctilious had not yet taken root, and thus had no corridors. 

His father was there, sitting at the long table with sheets of parchment strewn all around him.

“Cáno?” Fëanáro looked up from the sheet he was writing on, mildly surprised, and glanced out of one of the windows. “Weren't you supposed to be at the Lambengolmor?”

Macalaurë approached the table and unceremoniously tossed the leather folder he had been carrying on it before sitting down next to his father. “I was. I claimed fatigue and left. They just kept blathering and never got to the point. It was mind-numbing.”

Fëanáro snickered at the idea of untiring Macalaurë suffering from anything resembling tiredness, and dipped his nib into a well of dark brown ink. The simple gesture, its fluidity, the familiar way in which his father's hand curved and tilted, were enough to dilute Macalaurë's irritation. 

“What were they supposed to discuss?” 

“Loanwords. What are you doing?”

“Telvo is becoming enamoured with plants. I thought he could learn the names of the most common ones, and familiarise himself with the basics regarding their structure,” Fëanáro explained. 

Macalaurë nodded – he had heard his youngest brother babble enthusiastically about the recently transplanted flowers in the garden (nobody ever said it, but it was like that that Míriel had talked). He scanned the bookcases lining the walls. Only the Lambengolmor had more books. “Don't we have plenty of books on plant lore? 

Plants, of course, weren't his father's foremost field of expertise, but Fëanáro did have a genuine interest in them, and had personally observed a large number of them: very few people had travelled as extensively over Valinor as he had. 

“I don't want him to read a botanical treatise at his age. You didn't start by singing hymns at Manwë's, did you?”

“Fair enough,” Macalaurë conceded with a smile, then sighed. “I understand now why you withdrew from linguistic debates.” 

Writing a book about flowers and trees was, despite its lack of complicated arguments and theories, still more intellectually challenging than what passed for intellectual discussion at the Lambengolmor half the time.

“You can do it too, if attending their sessions becomes a burden and nothing more.” 

“I don't want to. I was just in a bad mood, I guess. I will hand Rúmil my dissertation tomorrow and that will be it.” He inclined his head towards the leather folder.

“May I?”

“Of course.” 

Macalaurë took the slim, elegant case and handed it to his father.

Fëanáro set his nib down, opened the folder and took out the sheets of parchment neatly folded and stored inside it. He skimmed the text – he had the uncanny ability to grasp the content of any written document just by scanning it with his eyes.

“Excellent work,” he said after a couple of minutes, carefully rearranging the sheets back into the folder before handing it back to his son. “Your fellow linguists are lucky you didn't get to read this in their presence.”

“Always so genteel,” Macalaurë jested. 

“Truthful,” Fëanáro retorted, picking his nib up again. “Better than you sitting with them while looking down on them in the deepest recesses of your mind, at any rate.”

Macalaurë smugly shook his head. “From a purely ethical point of view, yes. But from the point of view of peaceful coexistence? I surpass you.”

Fëanáro raised one eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, and added a few more streaks of green to what was taking shape on the parchment as a peony. “Only to come here to complain about what a waste of energy and creativity 'peaceful coexistence' is.”

Macalaurë grinned. It was assumed that because he smiled in public he was level-headed, soft-hearted and well-disposed, when in truth he simply deemed most of the people he met to be unworthy of anything other than superficial goodwill. It was conscious hypocrisy, and his father was, in fact, infinitely more honest than him. But it was also an endless source of amusement, and at times Macalaurë wished his father would start seeing it as a diversion too. It wouldn't have worked, of course, because it was the certainty that his father was uncompromising to the point of ruthlessness that allowed Macalaurë to enjoy playing with the people who envied Fëanáro's fervour and were offended by the fact that he didn't hide it.

“That's what called complementing each other, I guess,” he lilted, stretching towards his father for a kiss. 

Fëanáro met his lips with that very fervour, and Macalaurë couldn't prevent his body from reacting to it. 

“Where are the others?” he asked as he drew back.

“Nerdanel took Pityo and Telvo, as well as Curvo, to the orchards on the other side of town to see the blooming plum trees. Nelyo is out shopping, though I bet he stopped somewhere to preen. Moryo is in his room making something I'm not allowed to see...well, nobody is, and I suggest you don't try to get any close if you don't want to be yelled at.” Fëanáro and Macalaurë shared a smile. “I have no idea where Turco wandered off to, I just hope he comes back for dinner, at least.”

Macalaurë set his elbow on the table and rested his cheek on his palm. He stared fixedly at his father for a while, then opened his mouth to speak. 

Fëanáro anticipated him. “No Cáno, this isn't the time.”

Macalaurë inclined his head in assent, suppressing disappointment along with the spark of desire that had been kindled in him by his father's mere closeness after so dreary a morning. He would desist – for the time being. “Where's your book about the phonetic adaptation of loanwords?”

“Bookcase right in front of you, second shelf. Nelyo made a new copy of it, so you can keep this one for yourself if you wish.”

“My my, what prompted the generous gesture?” Macalaurë stood up to retrieve the tome. 

“He said he was bored, used his best hand too.”

“How zealous of him.” 

Maitimo's laziness, coupled with his vanity, would have been enough to despair parents less hard-working than Fëanáro and Nerdanel. Both were disappointed that their firstborn should waste his natural talent in idleness – he seemed to effortlessly excel at whatever he set to do – but they let him be, because he was always there to help at need.

Macalaurë sat again with the book, and started leafing through it, taking notes of the points that interested him, and peeking at his father's work from time to time. When he judged enough time to have passed, he closed it and put it back on the shelf.

“I'll go take a bath,” he said when he stood up to leave, before bending down for one more kiss.

*

“What exactly in the concept of 'private' remains alien to you?”

Fëanáro glared at his son from the door – and he looked absolutely furious – but Macalaurë smiled radiantly, demonstrating that the only effect of his father's anger was to further entice him. He brushed his hair behind his shoulders with the utmost calm, and sat up in the bed with the fluidity of a cat.

“There's no such thing between us. I am both your son _and_ your lover, and if I want to wait for you in this 'private' room of yours, I very well can.”

“At the cost of disregarding my wish to keep this space for myself?”

“It's not nearly as important as my need to be with you, right now,” Macalaurë returned firmly, determined to work his way around his father's dogged resistance. “Would you really chastise me for my desire, my Rušur?”

Fëanáro snorted as the word fanned his annoyance, and strode across the room. No matter how angry he got Macalaurë never backed down, and would from time to time intrude when he least expected him to. It was a losing battle. “What should I make of a linguist who refuses to accept Valarin-derived substitutes for everyday words, even in poetry, yet calls his...“partner” by a Valarin term? A flagrant contradiction.”

“An undue appropriation, perhaps. But a fitting one.” Macalaurë beckoned his father to sit on the bed. “I know why you don't want me to come here.”

“You do?” 

Fëanáro sat down, and despite his still sharp pique, his right hand reached out to stroke the thinly veiled calf of his son's right leg, up towards the thigh, only half-concealed by the sheet that was all he was wearing. The light of Laurelin's declining rays caught on the dark gold of his skin, and in his dark grey eyes, making them glow like burning coals on polished clay.

Macalaurë wrapped his arms around his father's shoulders and leaned up to whisper in his ear, slowly enunciating each word, and imparting to them a melodic cadence. He lightly bit the lobe before drawing back and propping himself up on his elbows, haughty as any Ainu.

Fëanáro carefully considered the words. There was truth in what his son had said, and he was partly bothered, and disquieted by it – by how Macalaurë was able to parse his mind and delve for things he himself wasn't consciously aware of – but above all he felt a swell of pride for Macalaurë's self-assurance, his arrogance, and the clarity with which he perceived. 

“Could it be that you have a far more pronounced penchant towards sentimentality than you let on?”

Macalaurë shrugged one naked shoulder with pursed lips. “You can call it what you will. Love is such a trivial word, and incest a vulgar dismissal of feelings most people cannot even begin to comprehend. I like to act upon my feelings rather than pin them with words which are approximate at best, at any rate.”

“I will allow you to stay here, for today,” Fëanáro conceded after some apparent deliberation with himself, like a King bestowing a very generous gift. “I will need a little more time to weigh your arguments.”

Macalaurë lifted one eyebrow, unimpressed. “Self-serving snot.”

“You inherited your meanness from somewhere... _Tulukhan_ ,” Fëanáro countered, smirking at the offended glare on his son's face. He may have been unable to prevail over him, still would not let his masterful Canafinwë have his way too easily. “There was a precise circumstance which granted Nelyo free access to these rooms. And if I allow you too here, your younger brothers will all want the same.”

“Ah yes, Nelyo's flowers and cheesy bargains. I don't need an excuse,” Macalaurë firmly said, fixing Fëanáro with a smouldering look. “I intend to make this room mine too, regardless.”

“Is that a threat?”

“A clarification,” Macalaurë tersely replied, then smiled. “I've had enough of words for today now, if you please...Rušur.” His whim of the early afternoon had been nurtured to a ravenous hunger in that room, where every smell and every little detail of the seeming chaos of books and trinkets and scattered papers screamed of his father. He was half-hard and keenly impatient to finally feel Fëanáro's touch. He lay back down, his impossibly thick curly hair fanned out on the pillows, and kicked the sheet away.

Fëanáro knelt on the bed and advanced on him, trapping him beneath himself. “So, what is it you desire so ardently?”

Macalaurë reached for his hands, caught both of them and brought them to his lips. So different from his own, hardened by calluses, almost permanently stained by soot and marked by tiny cuts and blisters. Their touch, lavished on his skin and inside him, was what he craved right then. He drew his legs up, nudging his father's crotch with his knees, freeing them from beneath him. He opened them wide on either side of Fëanáro, and lowered his hands between them. 

“As you wish, my demanding one,” Fëanáro huskily said, and wrenched his right arm free to bring his index and middle finger to his own mouth. He sucked on them, with a placidity that further stoked the burning caress of Macalaurë's eyes on him. 

When his fingers were thoroughly drenched, he scooted back and sat between Macalaurë's legs, strewing the right one over his own left leg. His left hand stroked the inside of the lithe, delicately muscled thigh. His wet fingers began massaging the skin around Macalaurë's opening, soft and smooth under his coarse fingerpads. The tight ring of muscle twitched eagerly when he brushed it, contracting then relaxing. Fëanáro teased and tested it, stretching and wetting it before sliding his index finger into his son's passage. His middle finger soon followed. He pushed both in as far as they would go, then curled them to tease Macalaurë's inner muscles, pulling them out and slipping them back inside.

“Like this?” he said.

“Rušur,” Macalaurë purred in response, and his lips remained parted to let out a soft moan. 

Fëanáro smiled and pulled his fingers out, spat on them again, and inserted three, working them gently in and out of his son's body while his thumb rubbed along the stretched rim and across the sensitive skin beneath his sack. His gaze roved over Macalaurë's face and body, attentive to every gasp and every small quiver that shook him.

Macalaurë abandoned himself to that gaze as much as he did to physical touch. Fëanáro upped the pleasure by calculated degrees, letting him enjoy it to the fullest. He was already quite overwhelmed when Fëanáro withdrew his fingers from him and brought them to his mouth, making a show of licking them.

“Fancy that,” he said, though it came out a breathy sigh, “that you would taste from my ass but refuse to share a room.”

Fëanáro quirked one eyebrow as he swirled his tongue around his fingers before duly returning them to Macalaurë's passage. He stabbed them in and out, then abruptly settled on Macalaurë's prostate. 

His find was punctuated by a sweet, tinkling hum from Macalaurë, who drew his left leg back, opening himself even wider. Fëanáro tickled the spot with both fingers, then rubbed it more insistently. Macalaurë hummed a 'yes', his head rolled from side to side on the pillow and repeated tremors seized his body. His cock had remained untouched, but lay now on his belly, hard and pulsing, pointing straight at his navel.

“And isn't it silly of you to care so much about a room when you can have me touch you until you can't control yourself, and lick you all over?” 

To prove his point, Fëanáro stood on his knees and slid back a little so that he could bend forward. He lapped around Macalaurë's stretched entrance with his fingers still inside, still pressing down on Macalaurë's prostate. Macalaurë yelped. Smirking happily, Fëanáro moved upwards and licked Macalaurë's cock, from the middle of the shaft to the tip, gathering what precome had leaked from it into his mouth with a slow swipe of his tongue, reveling in the taste of his prideful song-bird. 

He trailed his tongue upper still, and licked over one of his nipples. The little nub was already hard and hardened even more under his tongue.

“Touch the other,” he instructed before he tenderly took it between his teeth and pulled. 

Macalaurë did, pinching his other nipple between his thumb and index finger, tugging on it with the same rhythm with which his father sucked on the other. He closed his eyes. 

In the warm darkness behind his eyelids, every sensation fused together in a dance of fire-sparks. He felt a mighty urge to sing his joy, yet he had no need to do it with his voice. The most wondrous music he could ever hear was already being played, there, on his body, by his father, a sublime melody that was his alone to bask in. He started wantonly pushing down with his hips to fuck himself on his father's fingers. His cock twitched on his belly, and a patch of wetness spread just below his navel. He could have sworn he felt his own inner walls pulsate around his father's fingers. Then his body tightened, and everything stilled for long echoing heartbeats.

When reopened his eyes, his father was smiling down at him, his fingers still keeping up a steady massage that helped the last of his semen to spill from his cock. 

“Good,” he murmured, bending down to flick his tongue along the slit to clean it of those stray drops, then pulled his fingers out of Macalaurë's body and lay down next to him, gathering him in his arms. 

Macalaurë eagerly settled in his embrace for a while, but didn't allow his eyes to close. The light outside had begun to darken, and if his mother and brothers hadn't returned yet they would soon. He only cuddled in his father's arms long enough to catch his breath, and when he stood up the delightful tingling in his ass was still there to remind him of his success. He crossed the room towards the chair where had left his clothing, and dressed again, feeling his father's gaze on him all the while. He was straightening his shirt when a rapid rap at the door ushered Maitimo into the room.

Maitimo stopped in his tracks as he saw him, a flower-vase held aloft in his right hand.

“Who would have thought of finding you both here.”

“Oh, Father just indulged me...for today,” Macalaurë suavely said, eyeing the flowers with some amusement. “No need to be jealous, brother.”

Maitimo made a vague sound and set the vase down on the table among a mound of messy papers. 

“It's just as well,” he said, “Mother is looking for the both of you.”

“Tell her I'm changing, will you?” Fëanáro asked, standing from the bed.

“Yes yes,” Maitimo said, but when he turned Fëanáro had already disappeared inside the bathroom. “You better leave from the secondary door, Cáno. Though I'd really like you to tell me how you managed to convince Father to let you stay here.”

Macalaurë blew him a kiss, his hand already on the door-handle. “It will be my pleasure, brother.”

**Author's Note:**

> Rušur means 'fire' in Valarin, whereas Tulukhan means 'gold(en)'.


End file.
